


The End

by Princess_Aleera



Series: The Mute!Cas Verse [12]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Also it's the end of the verse so, Character Death, Everything Hurts, F/M, Friendship/Love, Grief/Mourning, Heaven, Hurt/Comfort, It's also pretty nice when you get past the sadness, M/M, Moving On, Profound Bond, Singing, Thank you all and to all a good night, The Author Regrets Nothing, This is sad as shit you guys, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 07:22:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Princess_Aleera/pseuds/Princess_Aleera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Where this - and Dean and Castiel's - story ends.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Said We Would Die Together (But Some Die Young)

**Author's Note:**

> This had been buzzing around my head for two months before I managed to get it down, and in a way, it is the hardest thing I’ve ever written. It’s _very_ spoilery for the rest of the !verse, and pretty sad. If you don’t want to read it, you don’t have to. But it's the final installment of this series, so it does create some closure, I'd like to believe.
> 
> Like the warnings propose, people die in this story. That's pretty much what the installment is about, so know your limits. That being said, there are no other warnings, of torture, violence, or anything else nasty here.
> 
> Thank you all, so much, for sharing this journey with me. <3

Dean wakes up without quite knowing why. Cas is calm and quiet against him, face squished into the pillow and body curled almost into a ball next to Dean. (How he manages to sleep like that without a killer back in the morning, Dean has no idea.) It’s a normal night. Except it’s not. The alarm clock on the nightstand tells Dean it’s a quarter past four in the morning, and Dean is alone. The thought settles deep, _scares_ him; jolts him into in an upright position.

That’s what awoke him, Dean realizes; that gut feeling. And just like that, he _knows_.

“Cas?” He puts a hand on Cas’s naked back, but doesn’t expect an answer. Cas’s skin is chilled to the touch; not yet cold, but still lacking its normal, human warmth. Dean carefully turns his husband over, one hand gripping his angel’s shoulder. Cas’s eyes are closed, his face serene. He’s so, so pale, and there are dark patches under both his eyes. He’s got a hint of morning stubble, and the pale quality of his skin makes the wrinkles around his mouth and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes even more pronounced. The furrows on his forehead are almost smoothed out, his lips dry and dark red, almost blue.

He’s not stiff yet; for now, he’s only lax and familiar against Dean, looking as asleep as ever.

Dean cradles his angel, one palm resting against the old tattoo on his husband’s chest. He pretends he can still hear Cas’s steady, safe heartbeat. His other hand cards through Cas’s grey hair, movements slow, just like Cas loves. Loved. Dean curls up; presses a kiss to Cas’s temple. He’s starting to get cold now.

The phone rings, and Dean doesn’t startle. Isn’t even surprised. He takes his hand away from Cas and grabs the phone; doesn’t look at the display before pressing it to his ear, because he knows who it has to be. “Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean,” Sam says. His voice is scratchy from sleep, but he sounds completely awake. Alarmed. “I don’t – I don’t even know why I’m calling, man.” _Dean knows._ “Is – is Cas okay?”

Dean closes his eyes and feels almost calm. “Yeah, Sammy. Cas is resting now.”

He hears it when Sam begins to cry. Dean doesn’t, not yet. He lies back down, tries to give some of his own warmth to Cas, presses his face into the crook of Cas’s neck. Coconut shampoo. Earth. Pear pie. _Cas._

“ _Neëg nháim, zeitilith,_ ” Dean whispers to the man he loves. _Farewell, brother._

~*~

Sam helps him with the funeral – with everything. He’s got a case that’s supposed to go in court the same day as the funeral, but the judge gives him an extra day.

Dean spends the next week in a haze, expecting to find Cas wherever he goes. Next to him when he wakes up, grumbling and burrowing into his side, long fingers everywhere and legs tangled with Dean’s own. In the kitchen, hips sashaying in time with the song Cas plays inside his head as he prepares breakfast on the days he doesn’t have work early. In the garden, when it’s sunny; back glistening with sweat and the skin around the old scars taking on a darker hue, a tan, as Cas fumbles with the flowerbeds or plays with Inias. On the couch in the evenings, stretched out under that old, ragged blanket Dean’s wanted to throw away from years now, watching a movie and keeping one hand in Inias’s white fur, petting the young Canadian Shepherd absently.

Dean finds himself looking for Cas everywhere. He doesn’t let himself be disappointed when he can’t find him.

Sam takes Inias out for walks alongside his own dog, Echo, when Dean doesn’t have the energy. Sam sleeps in the guest bed, making sure Dean gets up in the morning, eats, sleeps, does something with his time. Dean doesn’t head into work – he wishes he still worked at the auto shop, so he’d have at least one place where he wouldn’t risk the chance of accidentally seeing Cas’s body.

Most of their friends have been over already. Tammi called; said she couldn’t see the house. Not yet. Dean gets that – appreciates it, in fact. Cas has done so much with this house; his presence is overwhelming in here, even when he’s gone. A small, small part of Dean wishes Cas is still around, looking out for him. The rest wants him to have moved on. He hopes Cas is in Heaven waiting for him. God fucking owes them that much.

He wasn’t sick. Dean knows that. The doctor, a colleague of Dean’s, tells them that there’s nothing he could’ve done. Dean knows that too, in some weird way. Cas’s heart was simply tired. It was finished.

Dean gets that better than anyone.

Dean wears his old winter coat to the funeral, even if it’s summer and the sky is bright and blue. He’s wearing the suit Cas got him for his birthday three years ago, but the tie is Cas’s. Was Cas’s. The silver stripes match the worn band on Dean’s finger, and he hides the amulet under his crisp, blue shirt. Sam drives him in the Impala, who looks gleaming and gorgeous in the summer weather.

Everyone hugs Dean and Sam – their friends, Cas’s friends; almost everyone they’ve known for the fourteen years they’ve lived in Grass Valley. More than fifty people are here, and Dean doesn’t even know who everyone is. It warms his heart to see how many people misses Cas, apart from Dean and Sam. How many who knows Cas, who’ll remember his smile and silent laugh and big, goofy heart.

They have a Christian funeral, naturally. And Sam nudges him when the priest asks Dean to step forward. Dean’s not paying attention – too away in his head. Just stares at the white, simple casket that holds his angel. He knows Cas would have thought the white would be the wrong color for him, but Dean disagrees. White is pure, white is clean and pretty. Perfect. Like Cas was. _Is_.

He stumbles up onto the podium on shaky legs, his notes curled inside his hand. He smooths them out and clears his throat, feels how it’s closing up already. He takes out his asthma medication and takes a puff, just in case.

“Cas has known me my entire life. I haven’t known him for that long, but I’ve known him long enough. A lot longer than I’d thought, and _much_ longer than I deserve. So I’m not really pissed at God for taking him away now. I’m sure Cas needed a vacation from my whining.” Dean crooks a smile and feels his eyes burn. There’s only silence in the church, but it’s a warm, pleased silence. Dean doesn’t look up, but he knows most of their friends are smiling. They should, if they knew Cas.

“I’m pretty sure that if Cas were here now, he’d feel awkward at all the crying. Cas always wanted people around him to be happy, to smile and laugh. He’d bake pies and sign jokes and do whatever necessary to make us happy, which is probably one of the reasons there are so many of us here today. Cas had a lot of friends, and I know he saw you – _us_ – all as one big, close family.” Dean has to stop and wipe away a stray tear that’s splashed down onto the paper, and he can hear Sam’s quiet sobbing from the first row. Dean can do this. He has to.

“I can’t say he gave me my life back,” Dean says and dares to look up at Sam for a moment. “Because there really wasn’t much of a life before he entered it. I was holding on just for the sake of holding on, and for Sam. Cas gave me reason to believe in happily ever after, and then he gave me my own happy ending. I can never thank him enough for that. I can only hope that wherever he is – wherever you are, Cas – you’re happy. And don’t worry, ‘cause I plan to join you when I eventually leave this place. You’re not gonna get rid of me that easily.” Someone huffs a laugh, and Dean thinks it’s Sam.

“It’s gonna get real quiet without you, Cas,” Dean says softly, and now he has to wipe his face because his vision’s all blurry. “I can promise you that. I won’t sit and sulk, ‘cause I know you’d be pissed at me for that, but I _am_ gonna miss you. I love you, Cas. Thanks for everything. You rest now. You’ve done enough down here.”

Sam meets him on his way down, and Dean can’t hold back any longer. The priest says something else Dean doesn’t hear, and the rest of the people in the church say ‘Amen’, but Dean’s got his face pressed into Sam’s white shirt and doesn’t care. He just sobs and thinks about how he’s alone again; how it’s only him and Sammy again now. And Dean’s not sure if that’s enough anymore. He doesn’t know how he can go on, years and years, with an empty bed and a garden slowly decaying and getting swallowed in weeds. Sam holds him tight, and Dean feels his brother’s tears drip into his own greying hair. Dean closes his eyes and tries to breathe, his throat closing up even with the medication as he _misses his angel_.

He carries the casket. He and Sam in the front, Gil and Jeremy in the middle, Stephen and Taylor in the back. It’s a long way to the grave, and it feels like they’re walking for hours. Dean feels like he’s outside himself, watching the situation from a great distance. He wonders if Cas does the same. Cas and Bobby.

Tammi’s there on his left when the casket’s being lowered into the ground, and Dean feels momentary panic when he realizes that he’ll never, ever see Cas’s face again. He takes a step forward, the panic working its way up his throat, but Sam’s hand clamps down on his right shoulder, and Tammi’s a safe, familiar presence against him.

“You’re doing great, Deani,” she says with a voice that’s thick from crying, and presses against his shoulder. “You’re right – he’s done here. We’ll manage, somehow.”

Dean doesn’t crumple, but it’s a very near thing. Instead he stands, rigid, as the priest sprays dirt on the casket and lists another prayer. Dean whispers ‘Amen’ along with the rest when he’s done, and then, because he has to, he whispers “Tell Bal and Gabe hi from me, Cas.” He stares at the dark gravestone, at Cas’s name and dates, at the small inscription at the bottom.

_Death makes angels of us all._

There is a spare space at the middle, where Dean’s name will join his one day.

Sam pulls him into another hug now, and Dean lets him. Tammi holds his other hand, sobbing quietly, and Dean loves her so much for loving Cas. Slowly, the crowd is spread thin, until only a dozen people are left.

“Dean,” a soft voice says, and he turns to Carolyn with a shaky smile. “I’m so sorry, baby,” she says and kisses his forehead. “You know I’ll miss him so goddamn much.” Her face is wet, her makeup smudged.

Dean nods and buries his face in her bright red hair. She’s kept it out today, just like Cas loved. “I’m glad Sam’s still got you,” he whispers.

“I’m not planning on leaving for many, many years yet, baby,” she says and squeezes him gently. Dean’s careful to avoid pressing against her belly, but keeps close for almost a minute before he lets himself step back.

Sam walks up to his wife, and she hugs him tightly too. Sam seems to deflate at that, and his sobs turn wracking. Carolyn shushes him even if fresh tears have started rolling down her cheeks, cards her hand through his short hair, and Dean turns to stare at Cas’s grave. Something’s missing. He’s not done here, he can’t –

Oh. Of course. Dean sinks down to the ground, folding his legs under himself, and presses his palms to the fresh grass. “ _Hey Cas,_ ” he sings, and his voice is shaky and awful, but he keeps going. It’s the last thing he can do for Cas, and he’ll do this. ” _Don’t make it bad. Take a sad song… and make it better._ ”

There’s a presence behind him, and suddenly Tammi’s sitting down next to him, her scratchy voice joining his. “ _Remember to let her into your heart… then you can start to make it better_.”

Dean curls his fingers into the moist earth. Thinks about how much he fears tomorrow and the days after that. Sam sinks down on his right, Carolyn by his side, and then they’re all singing. Good thing too; Dean’s voice is quivering and shaking, tears streaming down his cheeks as Cas’s family sing his favorite song one last time.

~*~


	2. I Will Tell You A Story If You Die (Tell Your Story And Keep You Alive)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the chapter titles are from 'Some Die Young', by Laleh. If you haven't heard it, I urge you to. It's a beautiful song.

It’s a lazy Sunday morning, the Spring sun hidden behind an array of dark clouds, and Dean rolls out of bed to grab his nearest, cleanest pair of jeans. There’s a dull ache in his lower back that doesn’t go away when he stretches, but he’s starting to get used to the idea that it’s not gonna disappear. His throat feels a little tight; it’s probably time to change the sheets again. Dean takes a puff of his inhalator and finds a clean shirt. He whistles, a sharp, single tone in the silence, and is met by a bark. Inias shuffles into the bedroom, having slept in the living room tonight, his white, bowed tail wagging lazily from side to side.

“Hey, boy,” Dean murmurs and kneels down to scratch his best buddy behind the ears. Inias makes a pleased sort of growl and his eyes narrow, head pressing against his palms as his wagging tail increases its frequency for a few minutes.

“Wanna go for a walk, buddy?” Dean asks and stands up, Inias obediently following him to the door. Inias is getting older now, less a ball of energy and more a calm companion, which suits Dean perfectly. They wander down the street in a leisurely pace, Inias behind Dean, eagerly looking and sniffing around.

Sunday’s home for a visit, it seems, and Dean hollers at her. “Yo! Happy you-day!” She’s in her parents’ front yard, seemingly trying to manage a foldable table, but turns to grin and wave at him. She’s a long way from the skinny, awkward sixteen-year old Dean and Cas first met. She’s grown into a pretty lady, and as Dean walks closer, one of her boys shoots out of the house and barrels into her, wailing loudly.

“Moooom,” he sobs. Dean thinks it’s Marcus, though it could be Harry. He’s never been able to separate the twins. “Marcus broke my Barbie!”

Harry, then. Dean chuckles as Sunday ruffles the five-year old’s curly, blond hair. “I’m sure he didn’t mean to, honey,” she says and sends Dean an exasperated look. The ruffling doesn’t seem to help, and neither do the words. Harry’s inconsolable at the loss of his favorite Barbie, and in the end, Sunday has to go inside to sort out the mess.

“Say hi to your brother from me!” she hollers before she disappears.

“Will do, ma’am!” Dean hollers right back, and resumes his walk. It’s not a long walk today; he’s having one of his less good days and his leg is giving him hell. Even after being reborn as a 29-year old, his body’s endured a lot more than the average human. So now, after reaching and passing fifty, Dean’s started to feel the consequences. Which is funny, in a way – he didn’t ever think he’d live this long. Sammy’s turning forty-nine in just six weeks, and his hair’s getting gray. Dean never tires of calling him on that, even if his own hair’s a sad resemblance of its former glory.

He collapses in the couch when they get back home, Inias curling up next to him where Cas once used to sit. The dog puts his head on Dean’s lap and gives him a pointed puppy look, and Dean obediently starts scratching his head, chuckling to himself. “No question who wears the pants in this relationship, eh, boy?”

Inias blinks sluggishly and settles more firmly against his side. One paw slips to rest on Dean’s knee, his jeans immediately getting covered with white hairs. It’s been ages since he brushed Inias and he’s paying for it. Oh well.

Dean’s phone beeps, and he struggles to get it out of his pocket. “Yeah?”

“Hey, man,” Sam says. “Lyn was just wondering if you were doing anything later?”

“Not much, no. How so?” Dean’s smiling even as he speaks; he knows Carolyn’s probably cooked some food for him. She feels sorry for him, since he never bothers to cook anymore. Also, her pies are the next best in the world, after the ones Cas used to make.

“Well, we had her cousins over yesterday, so tonight’s leftover night,” Sam says. “Wondered if you were interested?” Which isn’t a real question at all, of course, because Sam knows Dean is _always_ interested when Carolyn’s cooking is involved.

“I’m there. When do you want me?” Inias’s ears turn slightly, recognizing Sam’s voice, and Dean ruffles his fur in that fond way he knows irritates the mutt like nothing else. Inias pokes his wet nose into Dean’s ribs in retaliation, and Dean chuckles. “Ini says hi, by the way.”

“Hey, boy,” Sam croons into the phone, and Inias lifts his head. “And we eat at six.”

Dean glances at the clock on the wall. Four thirty. Fair enough. “Sound awesome, I’ll see you then. Are the kids gonna be around?” It’s been a while since he visited – almost two weeks – so Dean wants to see his nephew and nieces. 

“Joy is staying over at a friend’s house, but Miriam and Jonathan are both home,” Sam says.

“Awesome. Tell’em Uncle Dean’s dropping by.”

“They’re scared already,” Sam says with a chuckle. “Bye.”

“Bye, Sammy. Give the missus a kiss from me.” Dean puts down the phone and leans back in the couch, one hand absently petting Inias. He conjures up the image of his late husband, sitting beside him, curling up against his side where Inias now lies. Dean tries not to do this often. It’s been nearly six years, but he still wakes up every other night, sweating and gasping, and rolls over to grasp at the lone pillow on Cas’s side of the bed. The clock will read a quarter past four, and everything’s back to that same, first night when he woke up and Cas was gone.

But Dean’s still around. And that’s… fine, actually. He’s got Sam, and Tammi, and Carolyn and the kids. He’s got Inias and Gil and Taylor and Taylor – a whole bunch of people looking out for him. He’s gotten to pass his fifties. And he’ll see Cas again soon enough; hopefully. No point in rushing. (If he fears – just a little bit – to reach Heaven and find himself alone there, no one needs to know.)

He gets up and shoves Inias away playfully, the dog uncurls and trots into the kitchen to wait for his food, and Dean obliges. He can’t wait to see the kids – Cas never got to meet Jonathan, Sam’s youngest, but he loved Miriam and Joy just as much as Dean loves them. Considering Cas and Dean never got any kids themselves – there never were much question, really, and their dogs were their babies – Cas spent an enormous amount of time with Sam’s children before he passed away. Joy and Dean still talks about Cas sometimes – at eighteen, she’s had a lot of questions about that whole gay thing. And about the uncle she still remembers vividly. Sam thinks it’s absolutely hilarious watching his brother squirm awkwardly in his couch, but Dean thinks it’s kinda funny too. So he tells, as much as he can, about Cas and himself. About the two of them. And lately, Miriam’s been coming along too, to listen to her uncle’s stories. The fourteen-year old usually crawls up on Dean’s lap, when she’s not busy claiming herself to be too old and grown-up for cuddling, and Dean will tell them fairytales of the Knights of Free Will, who traveled across America to save people and hunt things. Carolyn knows the story they live with now; Sam, Dean and Cas all army men, Sam in a different regiment than Dean and Cas. All three scarred from their earlier lives, all three bound to secrecy. She’ll listen to Dean’s stories too, a complicated emotion warring with the fondness on her face. Bittersweetness, Dean thinks. He gets that.

Dean’s about to take Inias with him when he leaves the house, but now it suddenly leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He’ll usually bring Inias over to Sam’s, so the mutt can play-wrestle with Echo and the kids, but not tonight. “I won’t be home late, okay, buddy?” He ruffles at Inias’s fur, and the dog burrows happily against him. “I’ve got work tomorrow. I’ll be back before you know it.” He leaves Inias inside the house and locks, before walking up to his old baby and sliding in.

“You and me, baby,” Dean murmurs and starts her up, _Bad Moon Rising_ immediately filling the air. “Best team that ever was.” She almost seems to purr at the compliment, her old engine as smooth as ever thanks to Dean’s meticulous care. (Or obsession, as Sam likes to call it.) He sings along while he drives, thumbs drumming against the wheel.

“ _There’s a bad moon on the_ –” The car comes from the side. It’s a Mercedes, Dean thinks, one of those ridiculously expensive ones, all metallic blue and darkened windows. He has a brief moment to feel bad for his baby as the crunch and screams of metal fill his ears, before everything’s pain and his left side is on fire. He’s pretty sure he screams as the car skids and rolls, once and twice. He’s not there for the third roll, for the jolting stop when the remains of the 1967 Chevy Impala lands on her roof. He doesn’t hear the people that cross the street come and check on him and the other driver, or the man shouting for an ambulance. Dean doesn’t notice the woman who leans down to peek inside and call out “sir? Sir? Can you hear me? Are you alright?”

He sees it, though. Watches from a distance. He feels a little dizzy, but when he looks down at himself, he’s whole and good as new. He looks around and sees a familiar face; huffs in amusement. “Long time, no see.”

“Ditto,” Tessa says with a smile and walks up to him. “You look good, Dean. Old.”

“Yeah. Guess it wasn’t my time in that hospital after all.” He turns to look at the wreckage of the two cars. “Is the other one gonna be okay?”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” Tessa says, now right by his side. She looks exactly the same as she’s always done; dark hair and glinting eyes, pretty dress and just as pretty a smile. It’s strange to see her now, he thinks briefly – part of an old life. Part of a finished life.

“Fucker ruined my girl,” Dean sighs and stares at the smoking wreckage. More people are milling about now, and there are flashes of ambulance blue-red in the distance.

“I’m sure Sam will fix her. She’s family, after all.”

Dean chuckles, before the implications finally hit him. “God, Sam…” He’ll be so crushed.

Tessa looks over at him. “Are you saying you want to stay, Dean Winchester?” There’s an amused tinge to her tone, but not mocking, and her smile is as serene and genuine as ever.

“Nah,” Dean says after a moment’s thought, and knows it’s true. “Sam’s a grown boy, he’ll be fine. He’s got Carolyn and the kids. I just… wish I’d gotten to say goodbye, y’know?”

Tessa nods. “Sometimes it’s not meant to be.”

Dean thinks of Cas. “No. I guess it’s not.” The ambulances have arrived by now, two of them, and they’ve managed to get out the other driver. He looks like shit, but his eyes are open in terror and pain. The medics get him on a stretch, while the others try to get Dean’s bloody, mangled body out of the twisted clump of metal that used to be his baby.

“Damn,” Dean whistles. “I do not look handsome.”

“You look alright to me,” Tessa says and give him a look-over, and Dean chuckles at that. “So. Are you ready to leave?”

“Yeah, just…” Suddenly, he’s nervous. Though he’s not in a body anymore, he can feel his stomach jolt unpleasantly. “Is Cas waiting for me? Is he okay?”

“You know I can’t tell you anything about what’s behind that veil, Dean,” Tessa says softly, but her smile is too genuine for Dean to believe anything other than a yes.

He lets out a breath. “Then yeah. I think my fight here’s pretty much done.”

“I think it is,” Tessa nods and places her hand on his cheek. “Goodbye, Dean Winchester.” The world goes abruptly, painfully white and bright, a feeling of power rushing through Dean. It reminds him dimly of Cas’s Grace. Of Castiel’s Grace.

The next minute, he’s standing in his living room again. It’s like he remembers, except more stuff everywhere and the couch isn’t as worn. Also, Inias isn’t here. Dean doesn’t have time to look around before there’s a quiet voice beside him.

“Hello, Dean.”

Dean closes his eyes, because _that voice_. He hasn’t heard that voice in twenty years. He spins around and pulls Cas in without another thought, brings both arms around his shoulders and squeezes as hard as he fucking can, because he knows that Cas, _this_ Cas, can take it.

Cas _laughs_ , full and throaty and rough against his ear, and squeezes back just as tightly. He holds Dean close, who doesn’t realize he is crying before now, and rocks them both gently back and forth on their old living room floor.

Cas smells like Heaven. Like his coconut shampoo and the pear pies he used to bake, and that slightly musky smell he always got in the mornings, and like _Cas_ , and _fuck_ , Dean’s missed him. “You left early, you douchebag,” he whispers into Cas’s curls, one hand moving up to curl into the strands at the nape of his neck. Ruffled and untamable, like Cas’s hair always was. 

“I’m sorry,” Cas murmurs, and Dean cannot get over the thrill and surrealism it is to _hear Cas’s voice_. “It was my time.”

“Shit, Cas,” Dean says and he’s still not fucking ready to let his husband go, okay? “Your fucking _voice_ , man.”

Cas laughs. “I know. And my scars are gone, too.”

“They are?” Dean slips a hand down underneath Cas’s shirt, and finds nothing but smooth, unmarred skin. “Wow.”

“Mmm.” Cas kisses his neck and his smile takes on a bittersweet edge. “I’ve missed you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes and just relishes in the knowledge that Cas is _here_. Cas got to be in Heaven with Dean. Hah. They win.

Somehow they end up on the couch. Cas is blazing hot against Dean, his weight on Dean’s body familiar and safe. He’s younger, Dean sees, young like the Cas that once fell. Dean’s younger too, probably. There’s things to do – skin to re-map, sensitive areas to get re-acquainted with, Cas’s new back to explore – but for now, they just lie tangled on their old couch, breathing and feeling. They can talk later – do later, _be_ later. 

They have eternity, after all.

~*~


	3. Hold On (So Many Things I Need To Say To You)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last parts will mostly be part 1 all over again, but seen from Cas's POV.
> 
> This was partly written for [lost_view](www.livejournal.com/lost_view) and [stormseye](www.livejournal.com/stormseye) \- hope you both read and like it.

Though he's fond of early nights – prefers to snuggle up to Dean and read for a while before falling asleep and waking early enough to catch the sunrise – Castiel leaves for bed particularly early tonight. He's not feeling too well; he's not sick, he thinks, because there is nothing in particular that aches or feels stiff. Not stiffer than usual, at least. His back plays tricks on him most days, so that is hardly new. But he feels tired, in his bones, as if he could lie down and sleep for days on end.

 _I'm going to bed,_ Castiel signs, and uncurls from his usual spot in their couch. Inias, who prefers to half sleep on both his masters' feet in the evenings, fixes him with a disappointed stare before he reluctantly moves from his spot and down to the floor. Castiel chuckles, and leans down to scratch the mutt back to happiness. It takes mere seconds before Inias wants to reciprocate, and starts licking his hand.

“Good boy,” Dean murmurs from the couch, and leans down to pat Inias's back. Their dog growls happily and pushes his snout against Castiel's hand for more snuggles.

Dean turns off the lights in the living room, leaving only one lamp for Inias, and follows Castiel into the bedroom. He does so more often than not, these days; it seems Dean is as fond of their nightly ritual as Castiel is. Though they do still make love, it's not as often or as energetic as it once was – which, Castiel supposes, has several reasons. There is his back and knees, and Dean's aching joints and even more damaged spine and added asthma, but they have also lost the initial burning need. The feeling that every time might be the last time. Castiel knows that Dean waited for years for that other shoe to drop, and it colored him. Now, he's relaxed in a way Castiel had never thought a hunter could be: relaxed in his _soul_. It has been years and years since Castiel felt that soul, gazed upon it with his naked eye, but he's never stopped feeling it. In Dean's touch, in Dean's eyes – in every gesture and breath his husband takes.

“G'night, Cas,” Dean says when they are both under the covers, and Castiel signs his equivalent. He feels too tired for his novel today, and opts instead to curl around Dean's soft, fleshy form. Dean grumbles, but splays a hand on Castiel's naked back still. Castiel knows that Dean is still touchy and self-conscious about the extra layer of flesh around his belly that he can't seem to jog off, and doesn't care that Castiel likes it. He likes his husband soft and squishy, like a teddy bear. (Of course, he would never call Dean a teddy to his face. Castiel would never have sex again.) And he still remembers, from their first year here, when they scraped together all the money they had to be able to afford this wonderful little house, how Dean would skim off his food money to pay for other things. How skinny he could be, when hunting didn't keep him as fit and muscled.

Castiel burrows his face into the warm, soft skin now, and sighs deeply. Dean is reading his own book, another Stephen King novel. Castiel never developed a liking for the famous author; he much prefers the works of Virgina Woolf, or Paulo Coelho. Dean's hand trails soothing, familiar circles on Castiel's bare back, and Castiel falls asleep in stages; aware of Dean's constant presence by his side long after every muscle in his body has relaxed into sleep.

 

When he awakes, it's not in stages. One moment he sleeps, the next he is as fully awake as if he never slept at all. Neither is he in the bed anymore; instead he stands on its side, in the bedroom, with his back to the bed and his gaze quickly finding the old, moldy pear tree in his garden. Castiel feels... _odd_ , he can't explain it in any other way, and he turns slowly.

When he sees who is here with him, Castiel feels a sharp pang in his chest – as if someone has hit it hard. “Joshua?”

“Hello, Castiel,” the angel says and grins, as if it has been hours since they last met instead of centuries. He looks exactly the same as he has always done: Castiel knows he himself doesn't.

And it takes Castiel a second to realize two things. Firstly, that he must be dead. Secondly, that he just spoke. “I spoke. I spoke!” he gasps, grabbing his throat just so he can feel the vibrations of his throat. When he looks down on himself, he's wearing his favorite pair of slacks and Dean's blue Öyster Cult t-shirt, and he looks decidedly younger. In fact, he feels younger too – no bone or muscle in his body hurts anymore, and though he's not wearing his glasses, he can see as clearly as ever.

“You look well, Castiel,” Joshua says as if he knows what Castiel thinks, and nods approvingly.

Castiel smiles, but it freezes on his face as he remembers his first revelation once again. _I'm dead. I'm dead?_ Turning his head, he gazes down at his bed, and the man he has shared it with for fourteen years. His own body lies there as well, turned away from Dean as it usually is, curled up with his back pressed against his husband's side. He looks as if he's sleeping; apart from an unnatural stillness, and a gray-white quality that has started to color his skin, Castiel's body looks like it still embodies his soul.

And Castiel didn't even realize he had a soul now. “I wondered,” he says out loud, “where I would go when I died. Whether I would follow where Gabriel and Balthazar must have gone before me, or...”

“Or whether you'd come back Home,” Joshua finishes for him. “You have been human for nearly fifteen years, Castiel. There was never a doubt in His mind where you would go when it was your time.”

Castiel nods absently, but can't speak. He is overcome by so many conflicting emotions: relief, on one hand, for his opportunity to go home. To have his own, private Heaven. But on the other hand... “I can't leave,” Castiel whispers. “Not yet.”

“We have time,” Joshua says. “I'm not a reaper – I don't have a schedule.” He steps closer and puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder. It is warm and heavy and God-like in a somehow miniature manner, and Castiel remembers it well. They watch Dean sleep together, in silence, Castiel fighting the waves of grief that now threaten to overcome him. He's grateful; he must have suffered a heart attack so brutal and swift that he died in a matter of minutes. He noticed nothing; he didn't hurt. He's lucky.

But _Dean_...

“He's alone,” Castiel says, and the fear is overcome by dread for a moment. “He will – when Dean wakes and finds my body, he's alone. I can't – he can't.” His sentences don't make sense, but Joshua merely nods.

“I've got a feeling he won't be,” God's confidante says gently, and clasps his hands. As he does, the scenery changes – they are no longer in Dean and Castiel's bedroom, but in Sam and Carolyn's. The couple are soundly asleep, their legs tangled beneath the blankets, Carolyn's fiery hair flowing over Sam's chest as she sleeps with her ear directly above her husband's heart.

The scene fills Castiel with quiet sadness. He loves Sam as if he were his own brother; as much as he loves Gabriel and Balthazar and their memory. Carolyn is a kind, passionate and wise woman, and she has long ago become part of their little family. One of her hands is clasped loosely on her belly, above the covers, and Castiel silently wishes that he could have lived to see their third child born. But he can't complain. He has had many wonderful years with his family, with his Dean, and he has been able to follow Joy and Miriam from the womb until ages twelve and eight; he has learned what it means to be an uncle. It is a privilege Castiel never dreamed that he would have, and it feels petty to ask for more when he has already been given so much.

“I'm sorry,” Castiel says to Sam's sleeping form, though he knows the lawyer can't hear him. “I have to leave Dean for a while. Can you and Carolyn take care of him? You know he's not good at being by himself, and I... I can't bear to think that anything might happen to him because I'm no longer here.” He swallows around the painful words lodged in his throat. “I'm... I will miss you, Sam. I will miss you and Lyn, I will miss Joy and Miriam, and I will miss your boy that has not yet been born.”

Sam jolts upright as if from a bad dream, gasping and looking around the room with wild eyes. Castiel, startled, forgets for a moment that he is incorporeal and takes a step back. Carolyn wakes too, and blinks bleary eyes at her husband.

“What's wrong, Sam?” she says, her voice thick with sleep, and rubs at her eyes. Her long hair falls in curls and waves down her bare shoulders.

“I'm – I don't know?” Sam says, frowning now, and looks down at his wife with a confused expression. “I guess – I guess I must've had a nightmare or something, but I can't remember.”

“What kind of nightmare?” Carolyn asks, sitting upright in their bed, one hand cradling her belly as if to shush their unborn child. Her face changes subtly, a more familiar frown of concern; an expression Castiel knows he has worn much himself. The brothers still both have nightmares, and Carolyn must be as used to comforting Sam as Castiel is to comforting Dean.

Sam sighs and rubs his face. “I have no idea. I'm not even – sure if it was – y'know what?” he suddenly twists to his side and grasps his mobile phone that lies on the nightstand. “I gotta call Dean.”

“What – Sam,” Carolyn says and puts a hand on her husband's arm. “ _Sam._ It's four in the morning. You'll wake him and Cas.” It's not unkindly said.

Sam grimaces. “I know. But – I just have this feeling. You know? I've got a really bad feeling, and I haven't had that in over ten years, which was when – when. I just – I need to make sure that...” he trails off, staring into space, as if rooting through his own memories.

“Sam?” Carolyn prompts gently.

“He is clever, that Winchester boy,” Joshua sounds from Castiel's left, and he sounds amused.

“He is,” Castiel says, and doesn't try to mask the pride in his voice. “Sam is one of the most intelligent and kind people I have ever met.”

“Cas,” Sam says quietly, his voice odd – as if it's not his own.

Castiel startles. “Sam? Can you hear me?” He resists the urge to wave – it's clear that neither Sam nor Carolyn can see him.

Sam doesn't react to Castiel's words, but he turns to his wife. “Cas, I think – I think something's wrong with Cas,” Sam says, his voice different now. It is rougher, more urgent – an undertone of fear in it, as if a part of Sam already knows. Castiel is quietly amazed.

“There's – Cas?” Carolyn asks, still clearly confused, but the familiarity of her worry is gone.

“I've gotta call Dean,” Sam says again and punches a single digit on his phone. His wife only nods this time, doesn't argue, and her hand on his arm tightens visibly. Sam waits for a few seconds before Dean picks up on the other end. Castiel can hear his husband's voice, faint, in the silence of the bedroom.

_“Hey, Sammy.”_

“Dean?” Sam says, and though Dean has only greeted him, Sam looks twice as worried as he did only a moment ago. “I don't – I don't even know I'm calling, man.” He glances at Carolyn, who lifts his free hand to press a kiss to his digits in a silent sign of comfort. Sam closes his eyes for a brief moment. “Is... Is Cas okay?”

Silence. _“Yeah,”_ comes Dean's voice, calm and quiet and filled with so much more than Castiel thought a single word could contain. _“Yeah, Sammy. Cas is resting now.”_

Nothing more needs to be said. Sam presses the cellphone to his ear as his face crumples; Carolyn sucks in a sharp breath the moment she realizes that her husband was right, and covers her mouth with a hand. “No,” she says quietly. “Sam, is he – is Cas –” She clearly doesn't want to finish the sentence, and she doesn't need to. Sam only gives a shaky nod, tears sliding down his cheeks, and Carolyn crawls over so she can embrace her husband.

“Oh God,” she whispers, and cries quietly where Sam's sobs are loud and painfully earnest. “I'm so sorry, Sam. I'm so sorry.”

Castiel swallows and suppresses the urge to walk over to the couple and embrace them both; he is loath to cause them so much pain, and he is loath to leave them like this, but – “I have to go back,” he says hoarsely. “I have to get back to Dean. He needs – he needs me.”

“There isn't much you can do for him now,” Joshua reminds him, although his voice remains gentle, and the world warps once again. When they return, Dean has changed his position; he is curled around Cas's body, almost fetal, as if the corpse is the only thing sustaining him. Castiel cannot help himself. He moves forward to the bed and sits down on it, though he cannot feel the cotton beneath him. When he tries to touch his husband, his hands moves straight through him, and that, more than anything else, makes Castiel realize that he is dead. Unequivocally, eternally gone. And though he loves Dean higher than anything in the world, he cannot make his husband see or feel him anymore.

The pain of loss strikes him through the heart, as if pierced by an angel's sword.

“ _Neëg nháim, zeitilith_ ,” Dean whispers, the Enochian crooked and lumpy on his human tongue, but it still takes Castiel by surprise. _Farewell, brother._ He had no idea Dean knew this sentence; the same goodbye Castiel had whispered to his brother's scorched wing prints fourteen years ago.

He has no mortal body anymore. There is no logical sense for him to cry. But cry he does; laying down next to the man he loves, hoping beyond hope that he can give Dean a sense of the comfort and warmth he so sorely needs and deserves. “ _Neëg nháim, jëdoálith_ ,” he whispers in return, and wonders how Dean would react if he could hear Castiel's voice now.

_Farewell, my everything._

~*~


	4. How Long (Will Your Thoughts Of Valleys Stay Green)

Castiel flits between the two brothers during the next week. He checks up on Sam and Carolyn regularly, and Sam almost always seems to react in some way when Castiel is nearby – though he can't see or hear him. Dean, on the other hand, seems too swallowed up in his grief to notice that Castiel is right there with him, trying to comfort his husband in any way he can.

Sometimes Dean will look right at him – when Castiel sits in his usual spot in the couch, or on the bed, or stands in the kitchen doorway – but no matter how hard Castiel tries to convey that he _is_ here, he hasn't left yet, Dean just looks disappointed. As if every whiff of Castiel's presence he can feel is another reminder of what he's lost.

Perhaps this is selfish, staying when by all means he should leave. But Castiel... can't. He cannot leave Dean like this. Dean is not good alone, and though he has Inias – the two of them spend vast amounts of time just being in each other's company, Dean sometimes pressing his face against Ini's white fur and breathing harshly while the mutt whimpers and looks towards Castiel as if saying _why is daddy so upset?_ – Dean is still mostly alone. So _terribly_ alone. Even with all their friends that come over to pay their last respects; even when Sam moves into their house after three days, to help Dean with the funeral and everything else, Dean is alone in that great, big head of his. And Castiel know what terrible circles Dean's mind can spin in. He cannot leave his husband before he's sure that Dean will be okay without him here.

Castiel keeps close to Inias as well, as the dog doesn't seem disturbed by his presence. Quite the contrary; he seems to perk up when Castiel comes, his tail wagging uncertainly as if he's not sure whether Castiel is really here or not, but he is glad to see him anyway. It warms Castiel that his dog still enjoys his company, even as a spirit.

“What's that, boy?” Dean asks one evening, when Castiel bends down to look into Inias's eyes. He cannot touch the dog, but Ini still seems to catch his eyes, and his tail wags. “What're you wagging for?”

Inias responds with a low “bwouf” and keeps wagging, nudging his head forward until it goes straight through Castiel's hand.

“Good boy,” Castiel says with a smile.

Dean stares at their dog for a while, a complicated and pinched expression on his face. Sam walks in from the kitchen and around the couch; the brothers sleep in the living room now, Sam on the guest bed and Dean on the couch. Dean has barely been inside their bedroom since he found Castiel.

“Dean?” Sam asks, his voice gentle like it always is these days. “You okay?”

Dean shakes himself out of his stupor, his hands resuming their petting of his mutt's beautiful fur. “Yeah, I'm – Ini's just acting weird, is all.”

“What do you mean, weird?” Sam asks, handing Dean a Coca Cola before sitting down. He's got a bottle of soda himself, and Castiel knows (with both gratitude and a vague sense of disappointment) that Sam has already removed every drop of alcohol in the house. Castiel never drank much, but he had a few bottles of wine and cognac in a kitchen cupboard. Sam had removed them all – taken it back home to his house and told Carolyn he couldn't get himself to pour out Castiel's favorite drinks. Dean hadn't even opened that cupboard, but there is always a chance, Castiel knows that. Dean has only broken once, and that was ten years ago – when Bobby had been killed by that pack of werewolves in North Dakota.

“I don't know,” Dean says after a long silence, staring intently at Inias. “Ini just keeps – I dunno, perking up every now and then, like he used to when...” but he doesn't finish the sentence, only lets out a deep breath and drinks his soda.

Sam's eyes grow terribly sad around the edges, and he stares down at the bottle in his hands. The condensation drips onto the wooden table, and Sam wipes it away with a sleeve like he still remembers that Castiel used to make them both use coasters. “Dean?” he says after a long and heavy silence.

“Yeah?”

“You don't think... I mean, is there a way he could... still be around?” They don't say his name. They haven't, save for a few occasions, since his death. As if mentioning him by name is an insult, or a provocation of some sorts. He wishes it was different. He likes his name; 'Cas' has become _his_ by now, and he loves the sound of his name on Dean's lips.

He misses it.

“No.” Dean's answer is plain and hard. “No, he's – he wouldn't be that stupid. He's moved on, Sam.” And it almost hurts, it does, but then Dean adds, in a quiet, broken voice: “He has to,” and Castiel sinks to his knees in front of his husband – right next to where Inias lies curled up.

“You stupid, stupid man,” Castiel murmurs and almost smiles.

“Dean,” Sam says like he's thinking exactly what Castiel thinks; that Dean needs to believe that Castiel is gone because he needs to believe that Castiel is in Heaven. It is a wonderful thought, in all its terrible sadness.

“ _No_ , Sammy,” Dean says. “I would've – if he was here, I would know. I'd... feel it.”

Sam doesn't argue, though he doesn't look convinced, and Castiel sighs. He is close enough that he could lean forward and press his lips against Dean's, but he doesn't. Nothing makes him feel worse than slipping through Dean's corporeal form like he's smoke. 

Inias lets out a loud huff, like he understands that his owner is an idiot. Castiel smiles at the mutt. Inias's tail flicks once.

~*~

Sam exhausts himself in the week prior to Castiel's funeral. Dean isn't catatonic, but he isn't all there, and whenever he needs to deal with paperwork or things for Castiel's funeral, he tends to... stop. Stop thinking, stop moving. Sometimes he stops breathing for a little while too. These episodes scare Castiel as much as they scare Sam, and so Sam has taken on most of the work that needs to be done. Castiel knows Dean would feel guilty about that, if he was more himself. In a way, Castiel is glad he's not. Dean doesn't need more on top of everything else.

Castiel almost feels guilty about his own death, until he once again remembers that it was hardly his choice. He would have wanted more time, more years than fourteen. Which is a ridiculous thought; even with his angelic knowledge mostly intact, all his millennia of living, Castiel's years with Dean have been a life time. And longer than they ever thought they would have.

“Sam,” Carolyn says one of the days she visits the house; comes with food for her husband and her brother-in-law, and stares at her children's drawings on Castiel and Dean's kitchen walls. “FOR UNCEL” one of them says; a drawing from Miriam to Castiel when she was two years old. It's not easy to see what it was supposed to be, but Castiel has written 'selkie' down in the corner of the paper. Miriam still has her father's thirst for knowledge and her mother's no-nonsense nature.

Sam looks up from his papers; not for Castiel's funeral now, but for a case he has. He was supposed to go to court the day Castiel's funeral is, but he has managed an extension, and now he must juggle his workload between everything else. It reminds Castiel of the month Sam before he got into Stanford – in that very first, very long year of Castiel's humanity – and once again, Castiel wants to apologize to the lawyer for all the trouble he's putting them through.

“Sam,” Carolyn tries again when Sam just stares at her without seeming to notice her at all.

He blinks, and his eyes clear. “Yeah?”

“You need to sleep.”

“Nah, I can't, I – too much I need to get done by morning,” he says through a yawn and rubs at his tired face. Like Dean, Sam has aged well, but before is time; he looks older than his forty-three year old self, with deep furrows in his forehead and around his eyes. Dean is sleeping on the couch already, passed out before midnight, and doesn't stir at Carolyn and Sam's conversation.

“You won't get anything done when you're this tired, you know that,” Carolyn says and sits down next to him in the couch. Slowly, she reaches over and shuts the file her husband's reading. “Go to bed. Please.” Sam sighs, like he wants to argue but cannot find the strength, and leans his head on his wife's shoulder. Her arms come up to cradle his head. “You're no good to anyone if you're too exhausted to stand,” she says quietly. “Please don't do this to yourself.”

“I'm not,” Sam says, just as quiet, his eyes growing heavy. “I just – I can't... stop.”

“Stop what?” Carolyn asks, staring right into his eyes. Sometimes, Castiel had wondered how much she knew or had guessed about her husband's past life. She is an intelligent woman, and knew better than to ask, but there was a grain of knowledge in her eyes that sometimes made Castiel uneasy.

“Just – doing things,” Sam says. He leans forward until their foreheads press against each other, in a silent cry for comfort. “When – when everything's done and there's noting left to do, to fix, I – I can't – I can't _fix_ this, Lyn,” he chokes out, eyes brimming with tears.

“Oh, Sam,” Carolyn breathes and wraps her arms around him, like he is a small child. Sam lies down on the couch and curls up until his head rests in her lap. “Nobody's asking you to fix anything. People die, Sam. It's just nature. It's terrible, and I miss Cas –” her voice hitches on his name, and Castiel is grateful that she can call him that instead of 'him' – “so much, but this isn't your fault. It's nobody's fault. And there's nothing you need to fix.” Carolyn's voice is a steady, low, melodic tone, and even though tears are still slipping down Sam's cheeks and onto her dress, he's growing calmer and sleepy.

“But who else is gonna fix it, Lyn?” he asks, like it's a genuine question. “Dean is – Dean is _Dean_. He's – you know how he got when Bobby died, and this is _Cas_. I'm just – I'm _so_ afraid that he will do something.” The last sentence is gritty; every word punched out through Sam's mouth like he doesn't want to say them at all.

A brief flash of alarm crosses Carolyn's face, but her husband doesn't see it. “Do you mean your brother might hurt himself?”

“I don't know,” Sam says and looks over at the opposite side of the room, where Dean's sleeping soundly. He looks miserable even in sleep, not relaxed like he used to be. Like he _should_ be. “I don't know what he could do. I mean, he took up the bottle after Bobby died, but Cas was there to save him, then – and when our Dad died, he was... it wasn't good.” Sam swallows hard. “But what I'm most afraid of, is that he'll do something – just – monumentally stupid, like he did that time when I was... comatose and he sold his – well, everything he owned just to get me well again.”

Though he doesn't breathe anymore, Castiel still sucks in a sharp breath. The deal. Dean wouldn't – would he?

No. No, he would not. Dean must know that Castiel is in Heaven now, that Castiel will be fine. He will be waiting for Dean when he comes to join him some day, and he will live a full life until that day comes. Even Dean is not stupid enough to make another Crossroads deal. They have been free of this life for too many years to throw it all away.

“I know you can't talk about that, Sam,” Carolyn says while carding her hair through Sam's long, graying hair. “Not much, at any rate. But – this is another time, isn't it? You aren't soldiers anymore; neither you nor your brother. Even though none of us can ever take Cas's place, Dean still has us. He has Tammi and their friends; he has Joy and Miriam, and our little boy, whenever he decides to arrive. He has many people around him who _love_ him, who loved Cas too. He's not alone like the two – three – of you were back in the war.”

Sam nods, slowly, as if clinging to the logic his wife brings him. And she is right; everything she says holds true.


	5. Run Along (Run With This Dream)

There are.... so _many_ at the funeral. So many of Castiel's friends, of Dean's friends; their neighbors, colleagues, Jamie, Tasha and Piper, Tammi, Gil, Taylor and Jeremy, Sunday and Ryan, Stephen, Annie and Colin – so many familiar faces, and they all look genuinely sad that Castiel is gone. It warms his heart until he thinks it will burst again; that so many are here to pay their last respects, and to comfort Dean and Sam in Castiel's absence.

It occurs to Castiel with startling clarity just what Carolyn had told her husband three days ago: they are not alone. Dean's not alone. He has a network, a safety net; he has a heap of people who genuinely care about him and won't let him fall. Castiel doesn't need to be there every step of the way, holding Dean's hand.

Maybe, just maybe, he can let go.

“Castiel,” Joshua says as he materializes next to him, having kept away for the last days to leave Castiel in peace.

“I'm not,” Castiel begins, but Joshua shakes his head with a smile.

“You don't have to leave just yet, Castiel. I am just here to pay my respects, so to speak.” Joshua folds his hands delicately, and turns his attention to the crowd of people slowly filling the little church. It means a lot to Castiel, that Dean chose a Christian funeral despite his issues with God – then again, this could possibly be Dean's way of thanking God for the years he had with Castiel. It wouldn't surprise him.

Sam and his family enter late, all dressed appropriately in black and grave-faced. Carolyn's belly has barely started to swell, and it's noticeable through her dress. As she sits down, she cradles the bump with one hand and takes her husband's hand with the other. Sam sits next to Dean on the first row, Joy and Miriam sitting beside their mother. Joy keeps an eye on her little sister. Miriam looks mostly surprised at this point, like she didn't expect the great white casket in front of them surrounded by so many flower bouquets. Castiel doesn't understand why Dean chose white; it stands for purity, for innocence, and Castiel is anything but pure. Has not been for over a decade. If anything, a dark brown or even a black casket would seem more appropriate – but Dean went with white, adamant when Sam asked him, like this color was somehow important to him.

Castiel doesn't understand, but he respects his husband's decision. As long and thoroughly as he has known and loved Dean, there are still things about the man that puzzles Castiel, which is exactly how he wants it to be.

Dean is wearing his old favorite winter coat, even though it must be excruciatingly hot to wear on a sunny, warm day like this, and underneath he wears one of Castiel's suits. He has even put on Castiel's old tie – a Valentine's Day gift from Dean several years ago.

Castiel himself stands next to Dean, as close as he feels the need to be, and watches the ceremony with a strange sense of detachment. It is so unreal, to look at the white, beautiful mahogany casket and know that his earthly remains lie in it. On its lid rests two framed photographs amongst all the flowers in all the colors of the rainbow. The first photo is one of himself, laughing, that Sam had taken two summers ago when they were all on vacation in Disneyland. While Joy and Miriam were off somewhere trying slides and Carolyn was paying attention, Dean had cracked a very immature and inappropriate joke about Snow White and the seven dwarves, and Castiel had doubled over laughing. Sam had snuck in to take a picture, and even Castiel must admit that as far as portraits go, this one is not bad. 

The other photograph is an old one; a picture of Sam, Dean and Castiel leaning against the Impala's hood in front of their newly-bought house. It had been a Christmas present to Bobby at the time, but since then it has rested on a shelf in Dean and Castiel's bedroom.

The priest speaks first; about Castiel's life, and about God. Castiel pays partial attention, but looks at the people in the church instead of the front of the podium. Tammi, the poor woman, is sobbing quietly into a handkerchief. Castiel is delighted to see that she isn't wearing black; that would be against her personality. Instead she's wearing a pink, flowery summer dress, and she looks beautiful. Next to her is a man Castiel doesn't know, and he's momentarily saddened that he will never get to know this person, who is obviously important to Tammi. It might be the mysterious boyfriend she has dropped hints about for the last month.

The priest finishes, and looks towards Dean, who Castiel can see doesn't notice. His husband's staring at the casket like he is lost; like he's drowning. Eyes wide and unseeing, his knuckles whitening where he grips the notes for his speech. Castiel can't help himself; he leaves Joshua's side, who doesn't say a word to either stop or encourage Castiel, and kneels in front of Dean – wishing once again that his husband could see him.

“Dean,” he says. “I am fine; it's all fine. Don't worry about me, please. Everything will be fine.” The hand he stretches out to touch Dean goes through the man like it always does, but Castiel wills himself to _believe_ that he can feel warm skin against his palm, and Dean's slow breathing. “I love you, so much,” Castiel whispers.

Sam's back straightens with a small shudder, as if he heard Castiel's words, and puts a hand on Dean's arm in comfort. Sam's eyes gleam; even through the grief, he seems... consoled, perhaps, by Castiel's words, and that makes Castiel feel infinitely better.

Dean jolts out of his thoughts by Sam's touch, and after a brief look at his brother, Dean nods to himself and gets to his feet. His steps are unsure, almost clumsy as he walks up to the spot the priest has momentarily vacated, ruffling his notes like a nervous student about to perform an oral exam. Petting his chest pocket, Dean takes out the asthma medication he only needs to use when he gets upset or breathless. He coughs a little and stares at the notes as if he has never seen them before.

“Cas has known me my entire life,” he begins, and then something seems to settle within him. His rigid posture relaxes, as does the grip on his notes; he smooths them out, absently, as he speaks, sharing little looks with his brother every few moments. “So I'm not really pissed at God for taking him away.” Dean half-smiles, and Castiel grins back at him. “I'm sure Cas needed a vacation from my whining.”

“Never,” Castiel whispers. This feels a bit like removing a band-aid – it _hurts_ , it really does, but in a wonderfully liberating way. Dean's eyes are far too sincere, too open, for these words to be just that; words. Dean really means what he says. He doesn't blame God, and he's not angry at Castiel for leaving him.

Castiel doesn't realize how much he needs to hear this until he does.

“Cas had a lot of friends, and I know he saw you, us, all as one big, close family.” He looks up at that, at the rest of their friends, and when Castiel turns around he can see that through their tears, so many others in here are smiling. There are _smiles_ at his funeral. It's wonderful. And it is completely true; these are his family, Castiel's new brothers and sisters. Though they don't share Graces, each of these people have a place in Castiel's soul, and he is so grateful for Dean conveying that when he's not here to do so himself.

“I can’t say he gave me my life back,” Dean continues, and Castiel turns back to look at his husband. “Because there really wasn’t much of a life before he entered it.” There is a single tear trailing down his cheek now, the first since Castiel's death, and Castiel's heart clenches painfully. “Cas gave me reason to believe in happily ever after, and then he gave me my own happy ending. I can never thank him enough for that.”

Feeling tears press against his own eyelids, even though he is a spirit now, Castiel swallows. “You talk rubbish,” he says out loud, and his voice shakes even as he smiles. “You're my fairytale prince, Dean. My white knight on his shiny steel Impala.”

Sam's smile widens where he sits, and he squeezes Carolyn's hand tighter. Carolyn cries quietly, dabbing at her eyes every now and then, taking deep breaths through her red nose. Next to her, Joy has lifted Miriam onto her lap, and the eight-year old curls up in her older sister's embrace and presses her face against Joy's dress.

“I can only hope that wherever he is – wherever you are, Cas – you’re happy,” Dean says, looking up at the assembly with a watery smile. “And don’t worry, ‘cause I plan to join you when I eventually leave this place.” A few more tears slip down his cheeks, and he ignores them.

“I will hold you to that, Winchester,” Castiel murmurs. “If you don't show up in my Heaven when you go, I will track you down and kick your ass.”

Sam utters a low, startled laugh, and Dean's eyes brighten even as his breath grow shakier. He wipes at his eyes, almost annoyed at his oh, so human reaction.

“It's gonna get real quiet without you, Cas,” Dean says, quiet and suddenly serious. He doesn't look up when he says it; can't, Castiel suspects. And once again Castiel's non-beating heart hammers painfully. When the tears falling down onto Dean's notes won't stop no matter how much his husband wipes them away, Castiel feels his own well up.

“I'm gonna miss you,” Dean croaks, and sucks in a sharp breath. “I love you, Cas.”

“I love you too,” Castiel whispers back. “You must know that.”

Sam utters a dry, quiet sob and Carolyn leans over to press a kiss to his temple.

Dean's grip on his notes tightens again; briefly, violently. “Thanks for everything,” he croaks, his face spasming briefly in an effort to keep his emotions under control. “You rest now,” Dean says, and Castiel is suddenly, violently reminded of the brief phone conversation between his husband and Sam when Dean found Castiel's body. _Yeah, Sammy. Cas is resting now._ “You've done enough down here.”

And it's as if Castiel's heart is breaking even as it bursts free; an enormous load lifted off his shoulders, like chains taken off the wings he no longer has. Dean crumples the notes as his own face crumples, and Sam leaves his wife's side to help Dean down from the podium. There is nothing left of the reserved, strong hunter who would never reveal real, honest pain in public; Dean cries now, freely, and clings to his brother like a dying man. Sam clings back, and even as they sit down and the ceremony finishes, Dean hides his face in the crook of his brother's neck. Castiel stands by their side, not caring about his own tears, and tries to convey as much love and gratitude as he can with his incorporeal presence.

When the time comes to carry Castiel's casket out of the church and to the graveyard, Dean has calmed down considerably. He still cries, but it is as if the dam has already broken, and the flood is over. He stands in front, Sam on the other side of the casket, as they carry Castiel's body out into the sunny summer day. The birds chirp in the oak trees surrounding the graveyard, and everywhere Castiel looks, there is green grass and wonderfully colorful flowers in full bloom.

The priest takes a handful of dirt and spreads it on the casket; the dark, rich brown a stark contrast against the bright white. Dean's face pales suddenly, when the casket is lowered into the ground, and he steps forward as if wanting to throw himself onto the casket. “No, Dean,” Castiel says quietly, because he recognizes the feeling. “It's alright – I'm not there. I'm right here, with you.”

Sam straightens a fraction, and puts his hand on Dean's shoulder to ground him. Dean stills, and Tammi, who is now on Dean's other side, shifts closer until their sides are touching firmly. Castiel smiles; with Tammi looking out for his husband, Castiel can rest in peace – quite literally.

“You're doing great, Deani,” she croaks out, and mumbles another sentence into Dean's ear. Dean sucks in a sharp breath, that same, out-of-control expression that he had in the church, but this time he only stands straighter and nods, almost imperceptibly. 

They all watch until Castiel's casket has disappeared from view, and people start to leave, one by one. There is a wake, Castiel knows, but neither Dean, Tammi, nor Sam and his family seem to be able to leave for a while yet. Tammi keeps Dean's hand in a tight grip, one he returns even as he turns to hug Sam tightly and for a long time.

“Dean,” Carolyn says eventually, when they and only a handful of other friends are left. Dean lifts his gaze to her, red-eyed and grey-pale, and she smiles at him before kissing his forehead. Dean's eyes flutter shut, and he leans against her, barely – like a mother kissing their child's brow. “I'm sorry,” she says. “You know I'll miss him so goddamn much.”

Dean hugs her tightly for a whole minute before he manages to say “I'm glad Sam's still got you.”

She laughs, watery and weak, and murmurs back at him. When he steps back, Carolyn immediately turns to her husband, as if sensing that Sam is near his breaking point. And rightly so; the minute she envelops him, Sam lets himself break, his quiet tears giving way to loud, hoarse sobs. She holds him; rocks them gently from side to side where they stand together in the grass, and Dean walks up to the hole Castiel's casket has disappeared into. When Castiel goes with him, he notices for the first time his gravestone – it doesn't only have his name and date of (false) birth and his date of death. There is also a single sentence, at the bottom of the black, shiny stone.

_Death makes angels of us all._

When Dean sinks to his knees, Castiel does the same, again overwhelmed with the gratitude he feels towards this man. This wonderful, wonderful man.

“ _Hey Cas,_ ” Dean says, and Castiel thinks he is speaking to him – but when Dean continues, Castiel immediately hears that he's singing. “ _Don't make it bad._ ” Hey Jude. Castiel's favorite song; the song Dean would always, _always_ sing when Castiel woke at night with nightmares; when he hurt, when _Dean_ hurt. “ _Take a sad song... and make it better._ ”

It is his funeral, and Dean is singing their song. It is the grandest gesture Castiel could ever have asked for, and Dean gives it to him without even knowing how much Castiel needs it.

Castiel rises to his feet, shakily, as Sam, Tammi and Carolyn join in on the Beatles song. Joy and Miriam also know the lyrics, and soon his whole family sings. Castiel turns and walks away from the grave, slowly, but with lighter steps than he thought possible.

Joshua smiles at him. “The Beatles,” he says with a small nod, and it sounds like a compliment.

Castiel smiles back, and wipes the tears from his face. “I'm ready,” he says. “I'm – I have gotten everything I could ever have dreamed of. I'm already in Heaven. And Dean...” he looks back at his husband, still sitting in front of the dark gravestone, surrounded by family. “Dean will be okay. I know he will be.”

Joshua nods. “Then I guess it's time to go.” When he lifts his hand and the familiar, yet strange white light begins to fill Castiel's vision, all traces of regret are gone and replaced with anticipation. He will see Dean again.

_Then you can start to make it better, better, better, better..._

~*~


	6. Please Don't Let Me Go (I Will Tell The Children)

“Castiel.”

Castiel's running along the white, sandy shore, reveling in the feeling of Earth wind against his brand-new wings, still stumbling on his human-like frame. He's but a fledgling, only decades old, and this world – this Earth that their Father has created – is so wonderfully new and exciting and _full_. He barely registers where he's running until Gabriel grabs him by the waist and pulls him back. It's not rough, and something bright and joyful bubbles in Castiel's chest at the playfulness, but he turns to his Archangel brother nonetheless.

Gabriel's wings span for miles around above them, bigger than Castiel's will ever be, even when he grows up. The archangel's smile is indulgent, kind: he points at the ground by Castiel's feet. “Careful where you step, little one.”

Castiel retreats until his back and wings press against Gabriel's tunic. The archangel puts his large hands on Castiel's skinny shoulders, and Castiel squints. It's a... fish. A small, ordinary-looking fish, lying a few feet from the gentle waves. “It will die?” Castiel asks; he doesn't know much, but he knows fish needs water to breathe. To survive.

He can feel Gabriel shake his head. “Nah, look closer, brother.”

Castiel does. The fish gasps for air, but it does not seem to be dying any time soon. In fact, it seems to breathe just fine, and after a few minutes, it wriggles forward – further away from the water. “What is it doing?” Castiel asks, hushed.

“Evolving,” Gabriel murmurs, a safe presence against him. “In a couple of millions of years, that fish will have evolved into thousands of thousands of species.” He turns Castiel around; smiles at him. “Careful where you step, little sparrow; you never know how you might change the course of life.”

Castiel wonders, briefly, whether he should apologize; he didn't pay attention, and he could have snuffed out this life – this wonderful life, the beginning of something too big for Castiel to yet understand. But Gabriel's eyes are nothing but kind, and his Grace exudes only calm and companionship, so Castiel dares to extend his own Grace. A little apologetic, a little curious, a lot grateful. Gabriel laughs as the tendrils reach him, and wraps all his wings around the little fledgling.

“It's alright, Castiel. Everything's alright.” He lifts Castiel, who spreads his wings in an effort to stay still in mid-air. He hasn't taken to flying just yet; he is slow, compared to other fledglings his age. Uriel already zooms around Heaven, and Rachel can hover with intent. Castiel can barely flap his wings, and he sighs in frustration when he tumbles to the ground, sand covering his naked feet.

Gabriel's smile softens and he sits down by his younger sibling's side. “It will come to you,” he says. “Different angels learn different things first. It's not a race.”

“I just wish I was as fast as Uriel,” Castiel says quietly. “Or as clever in combat as Anael. I feel clumsy.” His wings droop a little behind him.

Gabriel strokes the feathers with attention and care, making Castiel lean into the contact, uttering content 'mmm's under his breath. “You'll exceed in those feats soon enough, little one,” he says. “Besides, I have a feeling your destiny lies elsewhere.”

Castiel blinks up at his archangel. “Is that why you are with me now, showing me this?” It is not usual for an archangel to spend time with a fledgling; Raphael only does so occasionally, and Lucifer lets anyone who wishes brush their Grace against his, but Michael stays away from the rest of the angels. Castiel hasn't even met him yet, though he undoubtedly will.

“Maybe,” Gabriel says with a nod, before his lips quirk into a grin. “Maybe I just think you're interesting.”

Castiel beams.

~*~

“Balthazar, I can't _breathe_ ,” Castiel gasps between bouts of uncontrollable laughter, trying to push the older, heavier angel off of him. Balthazar's crimson wings have him pinned to the ground, the Garden around them, and the angel's fingers have deftly found every ticklish spot on Castiel's adolescent body. “ _Bal_ ,” Castiel wheezes, his sides and mouth hurting from how he laughs, with abandon and without breath, his fists hammering against his brother's chest.

“What's that, Cas? I can't hear you!” Balthazar chirps and does not stop. His top wings fold above his head so the feathers can brush across Castiel's face.

Castiel howls with laughter.

~*~

“Castiel?” It's Gabriel's voice, quieter than usual – but of course, that is not strange. Heaven itself is quieter than usual; muted with grief and loss. No one that Castiel knows have seen Michael after the banishment of Lucifer – and of course, no one has seen the Morningstar. They never will again. There are hordes of angels teetering on the edge of falling, joining their Morningstar, and Castiel is so afraid of losing his brothers and sisters.

Balthazar sleeps against him, his wings tangled with Castiel's own, their fronts pressed tightly against each other. Behind Balthazar lies Samthazariel, also asleep, his face pressed into the base of Balthazar's crimson, magnificent wings. Rachel has curled up behind Castiel and has wormed an arm around his waist; he holds it, tightly. She cried, hours ago, but she has long ago stopped and now her breath is calm, slow, steady. Their feet are all covered by Baliel's wings; the younger angel back-to-back with Azazel. They all sleep. Today has been a long and cruel day; tomorrow will be worse. But for now, they all sleep, wishing they were still fledglings, wishing their Father was here to tell them that everything will be alright.

Wishing that Heaven were still whole.

“Cas.”

Castiel opens his eyes, but does not move in fear of waking his siblings. “Gabriel?”

The youngest archangel kneels by his head, a sad smile on his face. “Hey, little sparrow,” he murmurs and cards his hand through Castiel's hair and wings. Castiel smiles; they have lost Lucifer, but he has not lost Gabriel. He still have all his closest siblings, and he still have his guardian to look after him.

“You're good with them, Cas,” Gabriel says quietly. “They flock around you so easily. You'd make a great leader one day – sometimes...” he trails off, the smile slipping off his face. “Sometimes I kind of wish you were an archangel, little brother,” he says.

“I'm glad I'm not,” Castiel says. “I'm not good at giving orders. I prefer following them.” Following is easy; less confusing, he wants to tell his brother. Of course, that is not entirely true. Everything has changed after Lucifer's fall. Nothing is easy anymore, not the way it used to be. But that only makes Castiel want to hold on harder to what he knows, what he knows he excels at.

“Yeah,” Gabriel whispers. “I get what you mean. Never was good at giving orders myself.” He swallows, before giving his brother another smile. “You know I love you, right, Cas?”

“Yes,” Castiel says and mirrors the archangel's smile. “Of course I do.”

“Good. You're, like, my favorite angel.” Gabriel chuckles. “Nerd.”

Castiel blinks, unfamiliar with that word, but doesn't respond.

“Take care of them, yeah?” Gabriel says and looks at the pile of sleeping, lost angels. “You know what Heaven's like now; it's all chaos. Bal and Ana and Zaza needs someone to take care of them; make sure they're not alone.” Gabriel's eyes glint oddly.

“Of course,” Castiel murmurs. “And you can help as much as your time allows you to.”

For the first time tonight, Gabriel's eyes flicker. But he still smiles. “You got it, little one.” He leans down, kisses Castiel's forehead, lets his Grace envelop the smaller angel's for a minute or two. Castiel revels in the love and attention. “Take care, sparrow,” Gabriel whispers when he draws back. “It might be a while before I get to talk to you again.”

“And you,” Castiel says. Balthazar shifts against him; presses closer with a small huff. Castiel curls his Grace around the older one's, soothes the ill memories surfacing in his brother's mind until Balthazar once again goes still and relaxed.

Gabriel's eyes crinkle. “See?” he says. “You're doing a great job already.” One last press of Archangel Grace, then Gabriel flies. Castiel stares at the Heavenly sky above him, before he grows tired and gets dragged down to rest. It is a happy memory; of being trusted, of being close to his siblings, of feeling safe, even in the midst of all Heaven's uncertainty.

It is the last time Castiel sees Gabriel for thousands of years. Mere decades later, and Castiel's closest family is gone; Balthazar has fled from Heaven, following Gabriel's footsteps. Anael is falling, slowly but surely. Samthazariel has fallen to Earth to become human; Azazel and Baliel have fallen even further. Baliel is dead now, killed by Trachiel in yet another clash between Heaven and Hell. Only Rachel and Castiel are left, here in Heaven, Rachel under Raphael's command and Castiel with Michael.

But all that comes later. Tonight, Castiel still has a family who loves him. Tonight, he still thinks that he can keep Gabriel's promise. (Later, he will pretend to forget their entire conversation. Gabriel broke his promise first of all.)

~*~

Somehow, everything – their probable imminent deaths, the den of iniquity, the upset prostitute – everything else fades when Dean Winchester's face splits into a genuine, warm laugh. When the human puts a hand on Castiel's shoulder, the warmth bleeding through Jimmy's trenchcoat down to his skin, Castiel feels himself brighten as well. He tries to match Dean's grin, and wonders quietly how long it has been since he smiled simply because he wanted to.

“It's been a long time since I laughed that hard,” Dean tells him, still chuckling as they walk away from this place that makes Jimmy's skin crawl. “Oh, it's been more than a long time. _Years_.”

Castiel ducks his head, but leaves the smile on. It feels so good. He ignores the slight pang in his chest, a pang of sadness at Dean's words. Dean deserves to smile much, much more often. Castiel wonders if he can make the Winchester laugh again; make his face and soul brighten up momentarily.

Castiel wants Dean to be happy.

~*~

Dean looks haggard, but so unbelievably relieved to see Castiel standing close. “We had an appointment,” Castiel says when the veil of confusion doesn't lift over the hunter's eyes, and Dean laughs. It's a tired sound, but no less genuine.

“Don't ever change, Cas,” Dean murmurs.

Cas is – he is already changing, already falling, slowly but surely. But the knowledge that Dean appreciates him, wants him just as Castiel is, is something that leaves warmth in Castiel's Grace for months to come.

~*~

“Cas? Is this okay?”

Which is a stupid question if Castiel ever heard one, but Dean Winchester can be very stupid sometimes. He nods, a clear, sharp movement so he is sure Dean sees and knows, and lets his hand trail through Dean's spiky, yet deceptively soft hair. It has began to pale from the sun, and there is a tinge of red in it that Castiel loves. Dean's eyes flutter and he presses into Castiel's hand, barely, like a kitten wishing for scratches. It makes Castiel's breath catch – and this time he dares to.

This time he is the one to lean forward, forward until Dean's soft lips brush against his own, chapped ones. It is chaste, brief; perfect. Dean's eyes open slowly when Castiel leans back, lips still tingling with phantom touch.

 _Stay_ , Castiel signs, before lying back in his bed. It takes them minutes of awkwardness and uncertainty, but then Dean is right there, his strong arm around Castiel's waist, his hand splayed across Castiel's lower back, the heat of it scorching. Castiel shivers with it and curls up, his face hidden in the crook of Dean's neck. Dean pulls him in, shares all his body warmth with Castiel, and the fallen angel smiles against Dean's collar bone. 

It is the first time he thinks _my Dean_ and knows it not to be a lie.

~*~

_“There's a lady who's sure all that glitters is gold, and she's buying a stairway to Heaven...”_

Dean has a beautiful voice. It's rough, and the words are clouded with his own memories, his history; but the notes are clear and the intent of the song audible to anyone who will listen. And Castiel, oh, he listens. He feels the hum of Dean's voice through the pads of his fingers, letting them rest gently against his Winchester's throat. Dean doesn't seem to mind, only smiles, carefully, and finishes the song.

The memories of the nightmare – Raphael, always Raphael, but this time with Gabriel's distorted voice, “it's all part of the plan, little sparrow” – slip away into nothing, until there is nothing here in the darkness except himself, and Dean. And the song.

 _”And if you listen very hard, the tune will come to you at last,”_ Dean sings softly, and Castiel thinks that it has. He has the music. Dean is his music, his balm after the nightmares.

Dean is his... Dean is _his_.

“Go to sleep,” Dean murmurs when the last notes have faded, the rumble of his chest quieting down to its usual, slow breathing pattern. Castiel curls up closer and listens to it; tries to match their breathing, feels the strength in Dean's hand as it clasps his own, smaller one.

Castiel falls asleep and doesn't dream of wings.

~*~

The air is heavy with the scent of new paint, although their windows are open, and Castiel breathes in with his mouth and nose to get a proper whiff of it. It's not particularly pleasant, the smell itself, but what it _represents_ makes his stomach flutter and his lips into an involuntary smile.

Next to him, Dean is already asleep. Their bed – new, everything is new here, even _Castiel_ feels like a new man – is big and more comfortable than the motel beds never were. His own legs are tangled with Dean's, his hand on Dean's bare backside, counting the breaths. The house, _their_ house, is quiet around them. Castiel knows it is late, but he can't sleep; the blood is flowing within him, humming, and their earlier christening of the house, the bed, has done nothing to soothe Castiel's nerves.

This is theirs. Their bed, their house, their life. His and Dean's.

It is not half a human year since Castiel lost most everything he knew, and now, he seems to have more than he had then. He does not have a voice, but he does not need one to be himself; he has no wings, but Dean makes him feel like he can fly nonetheless; he has no Grace, but he has Love; he has no angelic brothers, but the memories remain and Castiel loves them as much as he has ever done – and Sam is his brother now.

Castiel buries his face in his soft pillow, Dean softly snoring by his side, and sheds a few tears that get soaked up by the cotton. They are not tears of despair.

~*~

Castiel loves every single thing about Christmas. He loves the food (though not the stress of the cooking, truthfully), the company, the cheesy holiday movies, Dean, Sam, Bobby, pies, decorations, lack of snow. Castiel loves it all.

But he loves this the most.

“I'm not asking you to marry me or anything, Cas – I just...”

But he is, isn't he? In his own, roundabout, wonderfully awkward way, Dean is handing him a wedding ring, and Castiel can barely get past the shock of it all to take it. His shock deepens, if anything, when he sees the description on the inside; the ancient script he has not seen in a year, but still knows more intimately than his own body. _Zade_ , the Profound Bond, a sigil Castiel has secretly chosen as the word for _them_ a long time ago; Dean and Castiel, the men that crossed Heaven, Earth and Hell for each other. 

The tears are as unsurprising for him as they are for his beloved, and Dean only smiles and asks if he can put the ring on. Castiel wonders, silently, if it possible for a heart to burst from happiness alone. 

Dean puts it on, and the titanium is smooth and cold to the touch; not heavy, just _there_ , fitting on his ring finger like it was always meant to be there.

Castiel thinks of rings of Holy Fire, the metal cold enough to almost burn his finger until it warms, becomes his body temperature, becomes part of him. Then he thinks of the rind around a solar eclipse, of two parts becoming hole.

“I'd like to get one too,” Dean says quietly, while they are both looking at Castiel's hand. “But I want you to choose it.”

Castiel can do nothing but kiss and hold Dean, hold this wonderful, complicated, infuriating, _human_ man that he loves and that loves him. He tells Dean as much, their lips tasting of watery salt, before he gives Dean the drawing of the tattoo he has worked on for so long.

The look on Dean's face is, if possible, even more beautiful than Castiel's new ring.

~*~

“It's fine, Mrs. Harris, Yorkie will be alright here for a night,” Taylor says with his usual, reassuring smile. “Cas'll take excellent care of her.”

Castiel smiles when Mrs. Harris looks over, frowning and concerned behind her horn-rimmed glasses, and waves. Yorkie yips sadly from the cage she's put in for now, struggling to move through the drugs that are leaving her little body, and Castiel shushes her gently. He opens the cage and lets Yorkie sniff his hand before he scratches her behind her floppy ears, and she lies back down at that, letting out a huff.

“I suppose,” Mrs. Harris says slowly.

Taylor keeps reassuring the elderly lady as he shows her out of the shelter. They don't often get dogs from the local vet to keep an eye on, but they have a good and long-standing relationship with the people working there, and they're just completely full for tonight. Castiel doesn't mind working late; he's told Dean already, and Echo's visiting Sam for the week. He'll have full hands with the mutt, Castiel knows.

“Karen'll be here at twelve, yeah?” Taylor says, jacket already zipped up, when he pokes his head in. Castiel nods and closes Yorkie's cage back up; he'll check through the rest of the animals here before going back to petting her.

 _Goodnight_ , Castiel signs, and Taylor, who knows a few sign sentences himself by now, grins and returns the hand gestures.

“See you Friday, Cas!” And then he's out the door. Castiel follows him and locks, before he starts on his rounds. When he is halfway through, his phone beeps.

 _Come to the door?_ It's Dean's number, and Castiel frowns before going back to the entrance. There, outside the locked door, his boyfriend stands slouched, with a plastic bag in his hand. Castiel unlocks quickly, but not before signing _What are you doing here?_ with a smile. Dean comes to visit, sometimes, but never this late.

“Being boyfriend-y,” Dean answers and draws him in for a kiss. “Happy Wednesday.” He hands Castiel the plastic bag. When Castiel peers into it, he finds a bottle of cheap red wine and two cheese burgers from McDonald's.

 _This is the most romantic thing you've ever done for me,_ Castiel signs between his bouts of laughter, and Dean snags the bag from him.

“Ungrateful little shit,” he says, lips quirking, and sets the wine down on the counter. “See if I share this with you.”

Castiel kisses him again and again, still chuckling, before signing that he has to finish his rounds first.

“Go 'head, do your thing,” Dean says and waves him off. He finds two plastic cups from the water cooler, humming _Enter Sandman_ under his breath.

Castiel goes through the rest of his animals with a bounce in his steps and a grin on his face. By the time he comes back, the burgers have gone cold, and there's tiny bits of cork in the wine Dean's opened.

It's perfect.

~*~

“Oh my God, I hate Christmas,” Carolyn groans, pushing her hair back for the eterniteeth time. “I have no idea how you goaded me into this, Cas, but I'm never doing this again.”

Cas laughs and pulls out the turkey. It's a little burned, but not too badly. The potatoes are overcooking and they haven't even started on the last vegetables, so it's exactly like all other Christmases Castiel's had; noisy, stressful, bursting with unexpected things.

It's become so common that he wouldn't have it any other way.

 _Go enlist Sam's help_ , Castiel says, and Carolyn focuses on his words as she always does. She's struggling with the sign language, but she's the one who vowed to learn it, and Castiel doesn't mind fingerspelling more words than he usually does. He loves her for trying.

“ _Yes_ ,” Carolyn says, relief flooding her face. “Sam! I think Joy needs to get changed, or fed, or just – something, okay!”

 _Mother-daughter bonding,_ Castiel fingerspells.

“Mother-daughter bonding, you know! It is very important!” Carolyn shouts into the living room, and Castiel is still laughing when Sam comes in with their baby on his hip.

“Giving up already?” he says, peering at the smoking turkey, bouncing Joy a little where he stands. She's half-asleep on his arm, too young yet to care properly about presents, and it's been a long day.

“It's not a defeat, it's a tactical retreat,” Carolyn snaps and takes Joy from him – gently, so she doesn't fuss much. “Sshh, baby, Mummy just hates cooking. But Daddy can cook with Uncle Cas, can't he? Yes, he can. _Yes,_ he can cook with Uncle Cas.” She cooes at the baby, who cooes back and tries to grab one of her mother's unruly, red locks.

Sam rolls his eyes, but takes pity on his fiancee. “Okay, go on. She'll probably go to sleep soon, and Dean's still fussing over the tree and Echo, so you can go distract him with the cuddlemonster.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Carolyn says, gives him a peck on the mouth, and hightails out of the kitchen. Castiel pulls the potatoes off the heat and points at the vegetables.

“On it,” Sam says amicably, and they work in silence. From the living room, they hear Dean and Carolyn talk to each other, laughter and Joy's nonsensical babbling mingling with the words.

~*~

“Do you want to hold her, Cas?”

God, he wants. He also wants to be nervous, because the tiny body in Sam's arms looks so fragile a puff of wind could hurt her, but Castiel nods, because she looks so wonderful.

He remembers, in the distant and hazy way his angelic memories have all become, witnessing the birth of Jesus Christ. It seems strange, unreasonable even, that he is happier about Sam's little girl. But he is.

She is heavier than Castiel expects. Not _heavy_ per se, just... very much there. With them. Castiel cradles her as carefully as he can and she squirms a little in her awakened state, teeny-tiny forehead wrinkling. Her eyes are bright and look right at him, and Castiel gets the surreal feeling that he is being evaluated by a being not even an hour old. He looks right back at her, lets her see what is in his eyes. He doesn't know if she understands, but she doesn't start crying, and he wants to take that as a good sign.

He sways her gently and Dean comes over, looking proud enough to burst. He kisses Sam's daughter's forehead before he kisses Castiel, too. The little body is safely hidden between both of them and Castiel realizes, with a fierce kind of suddenness, that he will do whatever is in his power to protect this little girl. He feels it towards Carolyn, and Joy, too, but he didn't expect to feel it so soon, so _much_ , with this little creature.

The baby blinks sleepily at them both.

“She got a name yet?” Dean asks, still standing by Castiel's side.

“No, not yet.” Sam can't seem to stop smiling. Castiel is familiar with the feeling, by now. “We're thinking of something like Mary, though.”

~*~

Castiel is pretty sure everyone is crying by now. His grey suit will get stained, probably, from the amount he cries, but he doesn't care. For once, Dean is right with him, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his own, black suit. He looks gorgeous in the sunlight, the small clouds leaving his face in the shade. His eyes are red-rimmed and his mouth is trembling, but he is smiling, he is holding Castiel's hand tightly, and Castiel has never loved him nor life more.

“I pronounce you married in the eyes of the Lord,” the priest says, and Castiel can't help it: he laughs outright.

He wants to believe that his Father would be greatly amused that he, little fallen angel Castiel, just married one of the men who derailed the Apocalypse He foretold so many centuries ago. If He is anything like what Gabriel told him about, Castiel knows He would find this all hilarious.

“I don't know what you're thinking right now, Cas,” Dean murmurs with a twitch of his lips, “but if you don't kiss me right now, I _will_ divorce your ass.”

Castiel doesn't so much kiss his husband as he tackles him to the floor. Their suits get stained, but Castiel can't find it in him to care. He pulls away and helps Dean up, the other guests laughing, and gives his husband (his _husband_ , dear God, Balthazar and Gabriel would never have gotten past this) a cheeky grin. The priest looks a little uncertain.

“I can't believe you just did that, Cas,” Dean says through his own laughter, as they turn to walk back to the tables set up behind them. There is no wedding cake, but there is wedding pie.

 _I can't believe you just married me,_ Castiel signs and waves at Sam and Carolyn, sitting with their two girls on their laps.

“Believe it, bitch,” Dean murmurs and kisses his hand.

Castiel shares the first piece of pie with his husband.

~*~

He is late again, and fumbles with the keys. He's trying to be quiet, and that never works for him, but Castiel knows Dean is a sound sleeper. Inias, not so much. They had grown used to Echo's lazy attitude towards life, but with the mutt living permanently at Sam's now, they have Inias, an over-excited puppy, and they're getting to re-learn how much fun walks can be.

There is no white ball of fur greeting him when he walks through the door, though. The light's been left on for him, and Castiel removes his coat and shoes before padding into the living room. There's only one lamp on, Dean's reading lamp, but it's more than enough for Castiel to see.

Dean is slumped in the couch again, the glasses he usually refuses to wear crooked on his nose. He's burrowed under one of their new blankets, a book in his limp hand, and his mouth is open. He snores more in this position than usual, a low, uneven drone that hitches every few breaths. By his side, Inias is curled up, eyes closed and head resting on his daddy's lap. He wakes up when Castiel walks in, lifting his head and thumping his tail sleepily.

“Sshh,” Castiel says, but Dean's already opening his eyes.

“Mnuh,” he says and the book falls down.

 _I'm sorry I'm late_ , Castiel signs and leans down for a kiss. Dean tastes like sleep, so he must have been like this for a while.

“ 'S fine,” Dean says and bats off his own glasses, yawning. “Thought I'd stay up, wait. Guess it didn't work out.”

Castiel smiles and pushes a little at Inias's nose until he shuffles backwards, so Castiel can squeeze into the space between the two of them. _It's fine._

“Bed?” Dean says.

_In a bit._

His husband grunts and lets his head fall to Castiel's shoulder, snuggling into him. Castiel kisses the top of Dean's head, sees the barest hint of thinning hair right on the top, and buries a hand in Inias's fur. Inias noses at his stomach before lying back down, greeting Castiel with a soft whuff.

Castiel closes his eyes. They sit like this for a while, dozing.

~*~

The living room is empty, and Castiel stands in the middle of it. Nothing is happening. Something is _about_ to happen, though; he can feel it, with every fibre of his body. It feels like he has his Grace again, and the thrum of life he can feel, getting closer, is Dean.

It's always been Dean, hasn't it?

Castiel throws his head back and hoots with joy, with everything he's bursting with, and the sound is sharp and used and exactly like it used to be. He knows that his scars are gone, too; feels no slight pull of the skin when he moves, when he dances around just for the hell of it. There's a sharp tug of the bond within him, tethered to his very core, and Castiel stills. Waits.

He can feel, suddenly, the years that must have passed on Earth. He _misses_ , but it's not a sad feeling, just one of content expectation.

Then, he's standing there, and Castiel's face splits into a huge grin. The circle, _Zade_ , has come full circle at last.

“Hello, Dean.”

~*~*~*~*~*~  
 **THE END**  
~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all, and to all, a good night. <3


End file.
